the more is my unrest
by Ivory Muse
Summary: Being the man of the house is a job with few benefits, but someone has to do it.


It's been a bad day. A really bad day.

Sometimes, he wonders if Ma's God is jacking off to how much he screws over greasers— what Curly did was no worse than what polo-shirted Socs do for kicks every night when the fuzz's backs are turned. It's just that rich brats get a clip around the ear and a 'let's not have this conversation again, son,' if they're caught brawling in public, while Curly gets to cool his heels in a juvenile detention cell, seeing as life's a merciless bitch.

Punk is lucky he wasn't shot— he's so damn brain-dead, he probably doesn't understand that his age is the only thing between him and a cop's bullet. He's a good fighter, maybe even a great fighter, except he can't ever keep his knuckles clamped to his sides— worst of all, he's trying to impress the brother he idolizes. Damn it. He never asked for the kid to put his neck on the line, and he especially never asked for the kid to make a complete ass out of himself in broad daylight and knock a guy's teeth loose because the Shepard name had been slighted. What the hell was he thinking?

(And did he really consider for a moment that Tim would let 'a bunch of inbred queers playing gangster' slide? No keyed cars, no slashed tires? No weed smuggled into their lockers? Really?)

After that little bit of futile damage control, he has every intention of sneaking home, crashing face down on his bed, and fantasizing about planting a fist into Curly's stupid, reckless jaw the second he leaves that nice safe holding cell. It's too bad that the second he walks into the house (which he'd never look back at in a heartbeat if it weren't for what he promised Dad), he figures out that all hell has broken loose.

"Goddammit, Esther," his so-called stepfather is screaming from the top of his lungs in their crummy kitchen. There's china scattered everywhere, and he's breathing hard, like a hyperventilating bull. "I've had enough. You wanna feed his delinquent mouth, you can peddle your ass outside the Dingo and pay for it yourself."

 _I guess someone's already made his phone call._

"He ain't even fifteen yet!" Ma protests weakly. "Ain't even fifteen years old! Where's he supposed to go, huh? You want him strung out on the street?"

"And how is that supposed to be my—" He trails off, catching sight of Tim, and the corners of his mouth twist up. "Come crawlin' back here to stash some more dope, you little shit?"

Ma says nothing as always, just stares. She looks real tired, like she already knows how the scene will play out and isn't a huge fan of the show.

"I'm goin' up to my room," Tim says, returning the sneer, "'less you done rented it out already? Heard the price of booze's been climbin'."

He makes a solid attempt at smacking him a good one, but Tim dodges the blow and runs for the stairs with a single fluid motion, an escape artist. God knows he's had years of practice. "What the fuck do I hafta do 'round my own house to get any respect?" Caleb yells after his retreating form.

Tim bristles and spits on the already-dirty floor, imagining what his brilliant, handsome father would say if he heard fucking Caleb claim this was hishouse. He mutters under his breath, "Ain't even married to Ma, and pretendin'— is that my best switch?"

As if he hasn't had quite enough of everybody's bullshit today, there's Angela sitting on his bed, twirling a blade between her fingers. He crosses the threshold and snatches it from her grasp before she can say an indignant word. "How many times I gotta tell you to keep out? How many times?" he shouts.

Being Angela, she flips him off. "Not like you're ever here to notice," she says casually. He looks her up and down, eyes narrowed. Tangled hair, enough rouge to make a whore blush, hemmed skirt— typical chick her age, trying to look hot and looking like a hot mess. She talks tough. Too tough.

"You coulda cut yourself, dumbass, and Ma and Caleb are too busy throwin' plates at each other's heads to notice." Having said his piece, he hauls her up, pins her with one arm, and smacks her hard with the other— she yelps and tries to squirm free, but he's subdued far bigger adversaries than a bratty teenage girl. He has plans to dole out a pretty solid licking, and he does get a good three wallops in, but suddenly she releases a strangled sob.

He freezes; this isn't how it usually goes at all. They've got it down to an art. Angel kicks and hollers, he whales on her until she stops shrieking loud enough to wake the dead and then says, don't be such an idiot next time, she storms off nursing a sore behind plus a sore ego. The end. She doesn't ever cry over being whipped; did he really hurt her?

"The hell is it?" he says more harshly than he intended, releasing her from his grip and grabbing her by the shoulders. He hasn't seen her cry— actually cry, not just fake-bawl to get what she wants— since she was tiny, but now her face is an ugly mess of snot and tears and smeared black makeup. This is terrifying.

"It ain't fair," she chokes out. "You ain't fair."

"D'you think Caleb's any fairer?" he demands. "Or Ma? Ain't nobody left, princess, 'less you'd like Curly to start on you."

She shakes her head vehemently at Curly's name. "You taught him how to use a switch when he was eight, and I'm thirteen and I still don't know shit."

"Watch your mouth," he chides, and wraps an arm around her shoulders and sits her back beside him on the bed— a most unShepard-like action, but she leans into the rare touch. "I taught Curly 'cause he needed it. Why do you want to learn so damn badly, anyway? Nice girls don't play with knives."

"In case I get jumped." She wipes her nose on her sleeve. "You an' Curly are always talkin' about it, and I'm your sister. Socs are prob'ly gonna find me next."

"Like hell they are," he snarls. The Socs are real bastards, but he doubts there's any who'd beat her up for kicks— there isn't any street credit in that. "Listen, Angel, you're a girl and we're your brothers— girls with brothers don't fight. Any Soc starts givin' you static, I'll smash his nose in, and that's just a warm-up."

"I'm not an idiot," she shoots back, glaring at him fiercely. "I know what Socs do with girls from this side of town. You ain't always gonna be around."

... Fuck. Fuck. She's right, as hesitant as he is to give his kid sister carte blanche with a knife, as hesitant as he is to admit that he can't be her greatest protector, and the realization hits him like a blast of cold water. Forget Socs eager to start a blood feud by jumping all his relatives— they might set their sights on a target further south, and so could fellow greases, for that matter. If she keeps on the every-chick-in-this-damn-neighborhood route, she's going to have slimy little creeps shoving their sweaty little palms down her blouse, up her skirt... and then there's Caleb. So far he's been content with aiming the odd swing at him and Curly, but that might change. God knows Ma won't lift a finger in her defense, and if he tries to climb into Angel's bed...

Motherfucking dammit. His poor, not-so-naïve baby sister. He isn't always going to be around, and Curly already isn't. Would Dad balk at the idea of his precious daughter learning to fight, or realize that this is only way he can, truly, protect her?

(He can't save them both. He can't save them both.)

"All right, you got yourself a point. But you shoulda asked," he adds firmly, flicking her on the forehead. "Is asking too damn hard for you? Gotta move straight to breakin' in and enterin'?"

"Maybe."

It's Angela. Of course she has to learn all her lessons the hard way. "Well, you'd better not. Else the only switch in your future is gonna be one I knock against your ass. Understood?"

It's an obvious bluff, but she humors him and nods. She's stopped crying, looks at him with expectant eyes. He ruffles her hair, mainly just piss her off and make her squawk, because a sniveling, teary Angela is uncharted territory for him. "Stand up," he commands, grabbing the blade. "You see how I'm holdin' the handle?"

Dad isn't here anymore— he's going to have to make the decisions now, for everybody. He just hopes he's making the right ones.


End file.
